"Five Poems? You call this hippy free verse stuff poetry?" EE looked like he was having a coronary as I handed him the hand-written manuscript. He flipped through.
"Peace and love."
"I don't see limericks. Don't see Haiku. Do see groovy drugged-out, hippy in a paper sack, smelling of Mary Jane."
I held two fingers to my lips and sucked in a deep, deep breath. "Not to worry. It's a timely, culturally significant gas. It's great shit." I retorted. He frowned.
"Cultural? Like the Aaaawwwwwoooooooooooo poem. Let's meet Raul the Goatherd and his howling dogs."
"It's howl as in wail. Not bay at a moon. A discourse on society's dehumanization and degradation of what's good."
"You're joking, aren’t you? I saw the best minds running naked down mountain paths covered in goat shit, and 'angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night.' What does that mean? Seriously, not my cup of tea, rhymes with Honna-lee and gets policemen beating the doors because they think it's smutty pornography."
"Are you experienced?"
"Apparently not. What's a sutra?"
"An Indian composition of aphorisms accompanied by sitar."
"Are you sure of that?"
"It's a trippy rap from a lost soul."
"Loser, L-O-S-E-R. Bear in mind that 'for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache' as an American lament can't ever reach the heights of glory that 'In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo' hits. Now that's good free verse by Elliot. I can't publish some bearded hippy named Ginsberg. I suggest you take your rambler vine and climb up the cottage post and experience the leaves in the night and go hang out with that bearded fool Ferlinghetti at City Lights who digs Coney Island beatniks."